


Eye for Eye and Tooth for Tooth

by Chrononautical



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Hurt/Comfort, Justice, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture, proportional response, violence begets violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 17:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Bilbo is kidnapped by dwarves looking to hurt the king. Though he manages to escape, he is badly injured and no longer feels safe in Erebor. Thorin, furious at the harm done to his burglar, seeks vengeance. Unfortunately, all he really wants is to find a way to make Bilbo comfortable at his side once again, and that is more difficult.





	Eye for Eye and Tooth for Tooth

**Author's Note:**

> If you have concerns about the type of violence depicted, it is described in the end notes.

When he’d chosen to remain in Erebor and help Thorin rebuild his kingdom, Bilbo Baggins had foolishly assumed that the days of adventure and peril were in the past. Perhaps he had anticipated a degree of hardship at the start. Maybe only four or five meals a day until they made it through the first winter. One might also reasonably expect that winter inside of a mountain would be a bit chilly and warmth would be something to seek out during such a time. He may even have envisioned some physical difficulty during the work of rebuilding, as accidents happened and any cook knew that a kitchen knife could cut as easily as a sword. 

What he had not expected was to be kidnapped, held in a dark, freezing room, and starved. 

The room was small and pitch black, with walls of stone and absolutely nothing else. At first he’d walked carefully around the outer edge, counting his steps, feeling the walls for cracks. There were none in the cold stone. Even the corners were rounded, about seven paces from one to another. All in all, it was about the size of his third pantry at Bag End: far too small a place for to keep a person for long. Only the door had an edge, or Bilbo presumed it was a door, since it was about the right size in the dark. Unfortunately, the hobbit couldn’t feel any hinges. He also couldn’t feel any clothing against his skin. 

Bilbo was completely alone and totally naked. His captors had left him without anything to work with. He did not have his magic ring as he had in the dungeon of the elven king. He did not have Sting or armor to fight his way out. He did not even have a bucket or a blanket. On the bright side, they had not given him any food or water either, so there was not much of a mess to make in the corner behind the door which he finally designated for such purpose when he could not contain himself any longer. 

There was no real bright side. Bilbo was as thirsty as he had been after days of travelling in Mirkwood without supplies. He was as cold as he had been riding barrels down the freezing river. He was more lonely and desperate for company than he had ever been in his life. Though he tried to sing to himself in the dark to keep his spirits up, his voice sounded thready and weak. Singing had rather the opposite effect of his intent. During the second song he attempted, just a cheerful tune of his own devising about the road going ever on and on, his voice broke and he began to cry instead. 

He cried quite a bit. Otherwise he slept as much as he could, shouted for help, and banged his palm against what he thought was the door to absolutely no effect. 

Finally, after what felt like weeks but might only have been hours, the door opened. The light behind it was probably not very great, but it blinded Bilbo terribly after his long stay in total darkness. Yet he felt as grateful for it as he had for anything else in his blessed life. As relieved as he had been to escape the dragonfire of Smaug, as happy as he had been when Thorin survived his terrible wounds, and as pleased as he had been to be invited to make a new home in Erebor, that was how thrilled he was to see the door open. 

His joy was short lived. Almost at once, pain blossomed across his cheek. Then even greater pain stung his naked chest. Looking up at the silhouetted dwarf in the bright doorway, Bilbo saw the whip in his hand. Saw it lash out. Felt the sharp cut of it across his arm. 

“Please,” he cried out. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because your friends do not love you enough to pay your ransom,” the dwarf snarled, striking Bilbo so hard across his belly that the hobbit collapsed to the stone floor, clutching the wound. 

When he opened his eyes again the room was perfectly dark, and he wept. 

Time passed.

Bilbo did not know how much.

But time must have passed. That was what it did.

He could do nothing for his wounds, for he had nothing to use as bandages and no water to bathe them. He could do nothing for the growling of his stomach, for he had nothing to eat and no way to get food. He could do nothing to warm himself, for he had no fire and he was so very alone. He could not even sleep, or at least it seemed he did not, for the pain of his whipping jolted him uncomfortably upright at odd times. 

But he could try to do something when the dwarf came back. 

When the door opened, he simply leapt up and rushed toward the light. He was not strong, but he was quick on his feet and he managed to dodge past the dwarf in the entryway. Unfortunately, just beyond that dwarf, there were two more. Still half blinded by the bright light, Bilbo could not make them out very well, but they seized him by his arms and lifted him easily. Though he struggled, he could not pull free of them. 

“Escape attempts are thirsty work,” the dwarf still standing at the door to Bilbo’s cell said. “Give him a drink.” 

The hobbit relaxed a little, hoping that another chance would come after his vision adjusted, and reasoning that if he relaxed his guard they might relax theirs. This proved to be a mistake. 

The two ruffians holding his arms dragged him over to a barrel filled with some type of liquid. Bilbo didn’t understand their intention quickly enough and wasn’t able to take a full lungful of air before his head was shoved quite rudely into the water. It was foul. More like pickle juice than any proper beverage, but Bilbo drank deeply while he was submerged. At first it was almost a relief, though the brine stung his eyes and his cuts. It was a drink at long last when he had been more parched than wheat in an August drought. 

Then, of course, he needed to breathe. In a disconnected portion of his mind, he realized that he had been half drowned before, riding the barrels down the river to Lake Town, and that it should not distress him so. Yet he had not learned to breathe water in the intervening months. It still choked him and filled his nose and mouth while he struggled helplessly against the overpowering strength of the dwarves holding him under. Six times they lifted his head from the water and let him gasp for air, and six times they pushed him back under. 

Finally, the watching dwarf seemed to want his turn. Grabbing Bilbo by the hair, he grinned horribly. His teeth had golden jewelry embedded in them to match the gold beads in his red beard. Bilbo tried to notice other things like the size of the room or additional exits other than the door to his little cell and the larger door opposite, but all he seemed to notice was the foul stench of his captor’s breath and the burn of pickle juice in his throat. The dwarf threw him so hard that the little hobbit thudded against the back wall of his cell and crumpled to the floor. 

“Careful, Carrick,” one of the ruffians who had tried to drown Bilbo said. “The king will never pay a ransom if he is dead.” 

“The king will not receive a live burglar, no matter what he pays,” the red bearded dwarf, Carrick said, slamming the door closed. 

So Bilbo was left in the dark with the knowledge that his captors intended to murder him. Though he had been given a drink, he had also been injured even more by hitting the wall. His back hurt a great deal, and he had trouble breathing. Cold as he was, with water in his lungs he thought he would likely catch pneumonia. If he lived long enough to worry about it. 

He seemed to, for his coughing got worse as he rubbed his arms against his chest trying to get warm. Alone in the dark he had no way to measure time, but he counted his coughing fits and made it to two hundred before losing track. It was a poor amusement. Sleeping was much better, so he did as much of that as he could, curled in on his abused, naked body to conserve whatever warmth he could. 

Still, he did not give up on trying to escape. If Thorin would not pay whatever ransom the kidnappers wanted, then Bilbo could rely only upon his own wits. Perhaps that was not much to go on, but they had served him beneath the Misty Mountains, in the elven king’s halls, and when he was alone with the dragon. He could figure out a way past three dwarves, if he concentrated and thought of a plan. 

For good or ill, he had plenty of time to think and he came up with something that might have a chance. Then he waited anxiously for a chance to enact it.

As soon as he heard a noise at the door, he closed his eyes. It was Carrick again, come to beat his prisoner. The dwarf thought the hobbit was sleeping and tried to wake him with the whip. However, Bilbo was prepared for the lashing and ignored the pain, blinking open his eyes slowly so they were not blinded. In this way he managed to get a good look at his tormentor. He was dressed in the usual dwarvish fashion, which meant he had a knife in his belt. 

Dodging the next strike from the whip, Bilbo charged forward with all of the speed he could muster and successfully seized upon the hilt. He drew the knife, but just as he was about to strike, he hesitated. The dwarf before him had a soft red beard like Gloin’s and he wore voluminous braids in his hair a bit like Nori’s. While Bilbo might kill a goblin in self defense, he was not sure he could kill a dwarf. Not even a dwarf that was holding him prisoner. Not even a dwarf that planned to kill him.

In the end, he was not given the opportunity. Carrick tugged upon his whip and Bilbo felt it wrap around his feet. Desperately, the little hobbit maneuvered so that he fell forward instead of backward, flailing out with the knife and just managing to stab his captor in the shoulder. It wasn’t enough. 

Pulling the knife from Bilbo’s hands, the dwarf spun it in his palm and stuck the already bloody blade deep into the hobbit’s shoulder. Then the dwarrow gave the whip in his other hand a great jerk, and Bilbo fell to the ground still tangled in it. Being kicked by heavy dwarven boots was quite a memorable experience, though not one Bilbo would recommend to others. Then one of the blows struck his head and he was fortunate enough to know no more. 

When Bilbo opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that there was a faint bit of light in his cell. He could hear cursing through a small crack in the door as Carrick ordered his fellows to put a bandage on his shoulder. Clearly, he had not been unconscious for very long. 

Swallowing a groan of pain, Bilbo rose silently from the floor and carefully eased open the cell door. All three of his captors were gathered near the fire on one side of the large room, tending Carrick’s wound. Since he was now a seasoned adventurer, Bilbo knew better than to try to steal anything more than himself. He had learned something from that dreadful experience with the trolls, after all. There was not much in the room to be stolen, but he ignored the dirty rug that might have warmed him and slunk right past the pickle barrels though he desperately wanted another drink. 

It was not as though he left with nothing. Carrick’s dagger was still stuck in his left shoulder, and it hurt horribly whenever he moved his arm. Unfortunately the knife was stopping his blood like a cork, so he had to leave it in place until he could find a healer. Slowly he managed to creep across the room as quietly as only a hobbit could, and he snuck out of the door into the stone corridors of Erebor. 

Filthy, injured, exhausted, and faint with hunger, he could not move very quickly or very well. It was not long before he heard a dwarven shout. Then he ran. Racing away from the yelling dwarves was his only option, for there was nowhere in the corridor to hide. But hobbits do not have dwarven speed. Soon he was trapped against a wall, surrounded by six burly dwarves. He could not escape. 

With a great cry of pain, he pulled the dagger out of his shoulder and held it before him in a shaking hand. He was a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, and he would not go quietly back into that dark cell. 

Slowly, he realized that the dwarrow facing him were not attacking. They were, in fact, speaking. “Please, Master Burglar, we mean you no harm,” the de facto leader, a dam with a bright yellow beard, said. “All of Erebor has been searching for you.”

“Then let me go,” Bilbo croaked through dry, bloody lips. “If you mean me no harm, then let me be on my way.” 

That stumped them, for they clearly would not. Though they insisted that they wanted to bring him to the king and not return him to captivity, Bilbo did not trust them. What might have happened next if the dwarves had tried to close the distance or if Bilbo had leapt to try to surprise them will thankfully never be known. Before either of those things could occur, two more dwarves came running up. One of them was clearly friends with the six who encircled Bilbo, but the other, charging far ahead of his guide, was Dwalin. 

The little hobbit nearly fainted in relief. “My friend,” he whispered. There were tears in his eyes, though he did not drop his hard won knife. 

“Master Baggins,” Dwalin said, ignoring the trembling weapon and gathering Bilbo into a terrific hug. 

Upon being released, Bilbo said, “Once again, I seem to have undertaken a journey for which I was ill equipped. I do not suppose that, like your brother, you might have a spare cloak to lend?” 

Throwing back his head, Dwalin roared with laughter and ordered that clothing be found for the hobbit. Unfortunately, the joke seemed to sap the very last of Bilbo’s strength. Without the panicked vigor that had come with the certainty that he was about to die, the small fellow collapsed. However, the great warrior was quick enough to catch him and did so with surprisingly gentle hands. 

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Bilbo gripped Dwalin’s arm as best he could. “His name was Carrick,” he said. Then he slipped into unconsciousness and trusted his friend to sort things out. 

His dreams were not pleasant. Wracked with sweat and coughing fits, he thought he woke to Oin cursing and pulling at his wounded arm while goblins held him down. In another, Thorin seemed to hold him over the ramparts once more, threatening to throw him down to a waiting army of dwarves headed up by Carrick. The spiders of Mirkwood crawled over his skin. Gollum came to Erebor to bite the magic ring from Bilbo’s finger. Once he thought Bofur was there singing to him, and that was very nice until his friend grew into a great laughing elf which was quite unnerving. 

In the worst dreams he was back in the cell, alone or being beaten by Carrick. For a little while it seemed as though Thorin was there with him, and that was both a comfort and a curse. “You cannot pay the ransom if you are here,” Bilbo scolded him unhappily. “It is nice to see you, but he will only whip us both, now.” 

The dream of Thorin seemed sad and guilty. “You will be free,” he promised. “There is nothing I would not pay to see you unharmed.”

“No, no, no,” Bilbo corrected him again. “You cannot pay. Once you do they will kill me.” 

“I know.” The king’s voice seemed to break with emotion, but it was only a dream. “I knew that very well. But we found you and you are free now.” Looking about, Bilbo saw that this was true, and they were back home in Bag End. Thorin even sang for him, just as he had so long ago, and Carrick did not come to torture them at all. 

Smooth silk cradled Bilbo’s head and cocooned him in comfortable warmth. The smell of burning yew was accompanied by the occasional merry crackle of a fire in a grate. When he shifted slightly, his shoulder ached, but it was not the stabbing pain that came from jostling it while the knife had still been in him. Opening his eyes, he saw Thorin sitting in a chair beside his bed. 

The king looked at him, but did not say anything, so it was left to Bilbo to speak first. “Good morning! Any chance of breakfast?” seemed safe enough. 

Indeed it seemed this was exactly what Thorin most wanted to hear, for he smiled broadly and said, “I am the King Under the Mountain, Bilbo Baggins, not your cook.” Then he nodded to a table at the other side of the bed where a covered tray sat waiting. 

It was only porridge, but it had fresh blueberries and cream and the tea was still quite hot. “This is the best thing I have ever tasted in my life.” 

“I shall pass your compliments along to Bombur,” Thorin said. “And to Oin, who predicted your waking most accurately, it seems.” 

“Please do! I imagine I must also thank him for the use of my left arm, which I do not mind telling you I was a bit concerned about. Whatever he did worked a miracle, for I feel hardly any pain at all.” 

Mentioning the injury seemed to be a mistake, for a dark pall fell over Thorin’s face and the king scowled. “Yes. You will not lose your arm.” 

Bilbo found this particular phrasing quite alarming. “Do you mean to say I might have?” 

“There was infection in the wound. In most of your wounds.”

“Oh dear.” Bilbo drained his tea and then looked about for more. Thorin produced a pot and refilled the cup. 

“You have been feverish for three days. Go slowly.” 

“Three days?”

“Yes.” 

“And. Before that. How long was I?” 

“A week.” 

“Ah.” 

For a time there was absolute silence and neither of them moved. Bilbo could not manage to look up to see Thorin’s expression, but he imagined it was quite fierce. “Well, I am sorry to trouble you, but I shall need a great deal more breakfast than this. I have not eaten in a week and a half, you know.”

Thorin did not answer until Bilbo looked up at him from underneath his lashes. Then the king snorted. “We poured broth down your throat while you were sick, you greedy thing. Broth is good for fevers and coughs.” 

“I am still sick,” Bilbo said, coughing a bit more than was strictly necessary to prove his point. Indeed, once he started coughing he could not seem to stop, and Thorin caught the tray on his lap to steady it before the tea spilled everywhere. Once the wracking in his chest subsided, Bilbo smiled and carried the joke to its proper conclusion. “So just you go and fetch me some more of that broth. Only ask the cook to leave in most of the chicken and a few carrots, parsnips, perhaps a bit of celery, whatever is on hand really.”

“As you command,” Thorin said ironically, and went to do just that. It was only when he reached the door that Bilbo realized how lonely the room would be if Thorin really left. 

“Thorin!” 

The king froze. Slowly, he turned back to face the hobbit. “Yes?”

“Nothing. Thank you for sitting with me.” 

Nodding once, the king left. He did not return. Instead, Oin, Gloin, and Bofur brought the requested soup. Though Oin poked and prodded a bit and gave Bilbo a foul tasting draught of tonic to drink, they were good company. When they left, Fili, Kili, and Ori came in to entertain. It quickly became clear that Oin had limited the number of Bilbo’s visitors to three at a time, as all of his friends came through in shifts with presents, food, and heaps of well wishes. By tea-time when Dwalin took his turn, Bilbo had more books than he could read in a year, more sweets than he could eat in a week, and enough company to exhaust him completely. He was very glad to be back with his friends, but he wanted to sleep. 

Moreover, he did not want to be introduced to strangers, but that was what Dwalin saw fit to do. Apparently Bilbo was to have a guard on his door for the duration. Two tough looking dwarves with big axes named Jorrel and Farrel were assigned to head up the duty with assurances that a squad of six more waited just down the hall. Like Dwalin, Jorrel and his brother did not smile much, but they seemed proficient at their jobs. It was clear that they had the warrior’s trust and probably Thorin’s as well. 

Unfortunately, they did not seem to have Bilbo’s. While he knew that they likely did not mean him any harm, Bilbo could not sleep with them outside of his door. He spent a terrible night shivering in his warm bed, his heart racing every time one of them peered silently into the room to check on him. 

When morning came, his eyes were red and dry. They burned every time he blinked, and his cough was worse as well. Oin tutted over him and offered a potion that would help him sleep. So that Bilbo could be drugged and helpless while strange dwarves stood just on the other side of a plain wooden door. Refusing the offer with a smile, Bilbo waited until the healer’s back was turned and then got his magic ring out of the bureau drawer. Putting it on, he took Sting and his mithril armor as well, though he did not intend to go far. There was a nice big bearskin in front of the fire in Thorin’s living room, and it would probably be a few hours before anyone thought to look in the king’s chambers for a missing hobbit. 

The mithril shirt really was remarkable. It hardly weighed any more than the silk pajamas Bilbo had on underneath. It did not pull at Bilbo’s wounded shoulder either once it was on, though getting it over his head alone had been a bit of a struggle. Once he was past the guards and inside the king’s empty chambers, Bilbo was happy enough to keep it on, though of course he slipped off his magic ring and tucked it safely into a pocket.

The fire in Thorin’s grate was low, for the king rarely used his private sitting room, but the big rug looked as lovely and inviting as ever. Many times, Bilbo had enjoyed the soft brush of the fur along his feet, wondering if it would feel the way Thorin’s coat had against his cheek. This seemed like as good a time to find out as any. Tossing a few logs into the fireplace, the hobbit burgled a pillow from the sofa and a spare blanket from the foot of the king’s bed. Then he settled down quite cozily on the floor. 

It did not feel exactly like being embraced by Thorin on the Carrock, but it did smell rather like him. With his sword, his armor, and his ring, surrounded by the warmth of Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo felt safe enough to sleep. So he did, very comfortably. 

The crash that woke him sounded like dragons and earthquakes. Leaping to his feet, Bilbo drew Sting and looked about in alarm. He did not see any danger, only the wide staring eyes of Thorin Oakenshield. 

“You have broken your table,” the hobbit observed, rather stupidly. The table was a great stone thing upon which the king often viewed plans for new mine shafts or the big maps that detailed every corner of his kingdom. It was turned over at Thorin’s feet, cracked in several places, as though the king had flipped it in a fit of rage. 

“Have you been here this entire time?” Thorin’s eyes flicked down to Bilbo’s little blanket in front of the glowing embers of a long forgotten fire. 

“I wasn’t spying,” Bilbo said hurriedly, putting his sword away. “I do not know what has you in a temper, so please do not be cross with me. Only I rather thought I could do with a nap without so many strangers hanging about.” 

“You have been missing for ten hours!” Thorin roared. 

“Oh.” Bilbo squared his shoulders, though it caused him pain in the wounded one. “Well, I am sorry to have worried you, but obviously I needed the rest.”

Gripping a corner of the upturned table, Thorin crushed the thick stone to dust. Once he had done so, however, the rage seemed to pass into a strange form of defeat. “Why were you sleeping on the floor?” 

Because he asked so calmly and had clearly been very worried, Bilbo felt compelled to answer him honestly. “I am afraid of the guards,” he admitted. “It is not—they did not do anything wrong. Only I do not know them, and I cannot sleep near them. They frighten me.”

“That is—understandable. Other arrangements can be made. You should have told Dwalin instead of running off, though perhaps we would not have listened. But why were you sleeping on my floor?”

Bilbo thought it was rather the wrong moment to mention certain thoughts which had occurred to him from time to time regarding Thorin, the fireplace, and the bearskin rug. Indeed, one would be hard pressed to come up with a less appropriate time to open such a delicate discussion. “Well your room seemed safest, but the sofa is too far from the fire. Besides, I thought sitting up in one of the chairs would not do my shoulder any favors.” 

“I would have you in my bed.”

That was. Well. Surprising. Thorin had never shown any indication. It was certainly a welcome sentiment, though Bilbo did not know what to do with it when his body still ached rather awfully and he had not had anything to eat all day. They had not even kissed or exchanged flowers. 

“I mean, I would not have you on the floor.” 

Thorin’s face was very red. Bilbo appreciated the concern, but the rug was comfortable enough for anything that might be done in the bed. It was more that Bilbo did not think he was up to any activities of such a nature no matter where they took place. 

“That is not to say. There is nowhere—” Thorin stopped talking and took a deep breath. “Master Baggins, if sleeping in my rooms gives you comfort for whatever reason, I pray you will sleep in my bed. I will do very well on the sofa, for dwarves are not so discomfited by cold as hobbits are.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, understanding at last and rather mortified by his misconceptions. “Thank you very much, but I would not put you out. I am sure that once I am well again, I will sleep quite peacefully in my own bed. Hobbits hide away when we are afraid, but I am not such a coward that I need do so when I am well. Particularly if there are not strange dwarves standing about outside of my bedchamber at all hours of the night.” 

“Of course.” Thorin bowed stiffly, which was strange because Thorin never bowed and only rarely deigned to regally incline his head. “Excuse me. I must go call off the search.” 

With that the king was gone, leaving Bilbo feeling quite guilty. He had only wanted a little peace, and he had never intended to be gone for long enough to worry everyone. Indeed, there were a great many apologies to be made and a number of scoldings to endure. Though these subsided somewhat once Oin looked him over and pronounced his health much improved for the rest. 

Still, the fact that all of his friends had been searching Erebor and the surrounding countryside relentlessly for hours while he slept made the little hobbit feel like a delinquent fauntling. Dwalin was the worst of all when he mentioned off hand that Bilbo’s guards had been imprisoned the minute the hobbit’s absence was discovered. 

“And if I had thought for one moment that you hadn’t stolen yourself away, Burglar,” the warrior growled, “I would have spent the last ten hours torturing them instead of asking polite questions.” 

“You would not have.” Bilbo knew the big dwarf was gruff, but he was not a torturer. He was not that cruel. 

“No,” Dwalin admitted. “Not until Thorin ordered it. But do you doubt that he would have done so if we believed you in real danger instead of foolishly wandering home while wounded?”

Bilbo blinked. “You thought I was going back to the Shire? Without saying goodbye?” 

Dwalin said nothing. After a long moment, Balin said, “We could not keep you safe.” 

“You never promised to keep me safe,” Bilbo said reasonably. “You promised to bury me in a pine box if I was incinerated. That sort of contractual clause tends to stick in the mind.” 

The brothers gave him weak smiles, but the hobbit could tell that this was a cause of much unhappiness for the pair. “Indeed,” Balin agreed. “We have no legal obligation to protect a friend.” 

“Here now,” Bilbo said, “I do not blame anyone for the fact that I was snatched up except Carrick and his two fellows. Whatever reasons they had, I hope the law deals with them quite harshly.” 

The brothers exchanged a look. 

“You did—” Bilbo’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. “You did catch them, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Dwalin said quickly. 

Bilbo sighed in relief. “That is good. I think they meant some greater mischief for Thorin, and I should not like to imagine them free.” 

“They are not free, and they will not escape,” Balin said. “I would not have spoken their names in your hearing, but if you care to know, you have a right. Carrick’s family has borne a grudge against Thorin’s since before the time of Thror. Though none living now were alive to see his great-grandfather executed, he thought to avenge his line. Perhaps he also thought to see some of the gold of Erebor fill his pockets. I do not believe we will ever know the truth.” 

“Can you not ask?” 

Once again, the brothers exchanged a look full of some meaning that excluded Bilbo. It was quite irritating, but as Balin answered him, the little hobbit did not make a fuss. 

“I believe at this point he would only say whatever it is he thinks we wish to hear. He expects the same treatment that he gave you, no matter what he says, and now that Thorin’s attention is no longer divided by your illness, he begins to receive it.” 

A strange rushing sound filled Bilbo’s ears, and he did not understand the words Balin spoke. “Surely he is not naked. Surely he is fed.” 

“Thus far he has been allowed clothing and food, though certainly not the best of either,” Balin said carefully. 

“Thorin visited him while you were missing.”

“Dwalin!”

“Our king dishonors himself. The burglar has a right to know.” 

Bilbo thought about what might have happened during such a visit. He thought about Dwalin’s earlier comment regarding torture. It was reasonable to conclude that Carrick had suffered more than a blacked eye or a fat lip from such an encounter, and it made him feel quite strange. 

“I tried to have the three of them executed while Thorin was indisposed,” Balin said, as though this was a point he was tired of making. “Fili would not give the order either.” 

“Quick, clean, and public,” Dwalin said, clearly giving his own part of the repetitive argument. “Erebor is too newly reclaimed for any other form of justice.” 

“Perhaps if you asked, Bilbo.” Balin looked very gentle, and he would clearly not press the issue if Bilbo changed the subject. “Your heart is too kind to wish them a long death by slow cuts. Would you not prefer to have the matter ended at once?”

“I did not try to kill him,” Bilbo said, and his voice sounded strange in his own ears. “Carrick, I mean. When I got his knife and fought to free myself, I stabbed his shoulder instead of going for his throat. I did not want to kill a dwarf. Enough dwarves have been killed already, between dragons and battles. I do not want him dead.” Yet this was not entirely true, for Bilbo had been hurt badly and Carrick undoubtedly would try to harm Thorin if he ever did get free. Bilbo did not quite know what he wanted.

“Well Thorin will never agree to that,” Dwalin said after a moment.

“Best you put the matter from your mind entirely,” Balin said, clearly in agreement. “It cannot speed your recovery to think of such things.”

Unfortunately, Bilbo could not turn his thoughts away as easily as they turned the conversation from the subject. Though there were no strangers staring at him that night, only Bifur and Nori playing cards in his sitting room, Bilbo slept fitfully. In the morning, he went to see Thorin. 

The king greeted him with a frown. “You should still be in bed. I would have come to you if word was sent.” 

“Oin says I may walk about if I do not overdo it. And since Dori has not been three steps away from me all morning, you cannot think me unguarded.” 

The dwarves looked at one another. Clearly they thought their plan to watch over Bilbo was more subtle than it had been. Thorin coughed. “You would have words with me?” 

“Er. Yes. Dori would you please excuse us for a moment?”

The fastidious dwarf nodded amiably. “As long as you promise not to run off alone if he angers you. Run and find one of us, okay?” 

Since Bilbo could agree to this stipulation readily enough, he was soon alone with Thorin. However, once he had the king’s ear, the hobbit had some difficulty in coming to the point. They established that Thorin was well and Bilbo’s health was improving. Seats were taken and tea was poured. They established that the novel Bofur had given Bilbo was a little blue but very entertaining. Biscuits were produced. They established that Bilbo understood nothing at all about the mining concerns Thorin had been occupied with before being interrupted.

Finally, Bilbo broached the subject. “It was mentioned to me in passing that there might be some question of law pending, and that the punishment for my kidnapping had not yet been decided.” 

It was only when Thorin relaxed looking relieved that Bilbo realized just how much tension had been hidden behind the king’s polite expression. “Worry not, my friend, that villain will suffer what torments he gave you a thousand fold before I let him die.”

“Oh.” While Bilbo appreciated the sentiment, he would not want even Azog to suffer torments like that, and he didn’t particularly like the idea of letting a dwarf die as though it was some sort of gift. “Well, about that. I’ve been thinking about it. If there was some sort of punishment that could balance the scales, or at least make me feel better.” 

Thorin’s eyes glittered as he leaned forward. “If you would visit him in his captivity, you have but to say the word.” 

“No.” Bilbo shuddered. “I don’t think I should like to be alone in a small room with him ever again. Not even if he was quite chained up. I am still afraid of him, you know.” The hobbit tried to smile, but the expression was very weak if it came off at all. 

Thorin took Bilbo’s teacup and set it gently on the table. Only then did the little fellow realize just how loudly it had been clattering against his saucer. Yes, Thorin probably knew how frightened Bilbo was these days. 

“I think it would make me feel better if you killed him. Or well, not killed him. I cannot like the idea of dwarves killing other dwarves, not even him. Only I barely have nightmares about Azog, because you killed him, and whenever I have nightmares about Smaug, I remember that Bard killed him. So I think it might help if—”

“These are Balin’s words in your mouth.” Thorin interrupted him. “You would have a simple, public execution? That is really your desire, which you have not discussed at all with my advisor?”

“You are not listening to me,” Bilbo snapped. Then more gently, he continued. “I do not think Balin would approve of this request at all. For it is not wise, and it will certainly not deter future attacks. Worst of all, it gives Carrick one last chance to work some mischief. And since I know it cannot really be you, as a king cannot be risked on such a project, I will be asking his brother to risk taking a hurt. That said, I do not think Dwalin will risk much. If Carrick was any kind of a fighter, he would have attacked you openly instead of capturing me and coming at the thing sideways. Moreover, I was able to score a hit on him, and you know I am no warrior.” 

“You wish me to fight him.” 

“No. Not you. Obviously that was a silly idea, since he hates you in particular. But someone else, one of my friends, if one of them is quite willing to take the risk. You must not order it, because it is very foolish. I just. I do think it would help me not to be so afraid if when I remember how easily he was able to hurt me, I could also know for certain that some friend of mine was stronger still.”

“Yes,” Thorin said slowly. “I understand. I will think on the matter.” 

“Of course. Thank you.” Bilbo excused himself and went to find a place to shake in private. 

The following morning, just after second breakfast, Balin came to Bilbo’s chambers looking grave. “All of Erebor is commanded to gather in the great arena, and the king has specifically requested your attendance.”

“Ah.” Bilbo flushed a little and went to put on his mithril shirt underneath other, more appropriate clothes. 

“You do not need to attend.” 

Looking to his friend in surprise, Bilbo saw that Balin was rather angry. “Whyever would I not?”

“The king will tell no one what he has planned, but obviously it is going to be an execution.” 

That did give Bilbo pause, because even if Thorin had heard his request, this was likely true. Everything within him objected to the idea of sitting back and watching someone be killed. Yet if Thorin had listened, if Dwalin or Bifur was willing to take the risk, then Bilbo needed to be there. He needed to see that Carrick was not almighty, only a little stronger than the average hobbit. 

“Well,” the hobbit said finally, “I cannot pretend to like the idea of a killing, but I have faith that Thorin will act justly.” 

Balin’s mouth set in a thin line, as though he doubted, but he did not argue. Instead they went together to take seats in the royal box at the great arena. Thousands of dwarves were there already, but Thorin was not. Fili sat in his place. 

“This is not good,” Balin murmured. 

Bilbo found he agreed, especially when he saw Dwalin already seated at Kili’s left in a place of honor, Bifur and Gloin both in the row behind him. 

“I think it is perfect,” Fili said, something fierce and bloodthirsty in his eyes. “Sit beside me, Bilbo.” 

The little hobbit obeyed, feeling torn between elation and terror. He could not help remembering the dark undercurrent in the king’s voice when he’d asked if Bilbo wanted Thorin to fight Carrick. 

“Then you know what the king intends?” When Balin looked at Fili his face was calm and inquisitive without a hint of judgment. 

“Soon all will know.” 

Almost the moment Balin took his seat, silence fell over the waiting dwarves, and Thorin strode out to the center of the arena. He was not dressed as a king. There was no crown upon his head. Instead, he wore armor. Not the bulky plate mail he occasionally dressed in for formal occasions, but his studded leather traveling armor with the interlocking steel hexagons that gave him speed and mobility in addition to protection. Orcrist was at his side. 

“Have you any complaints about your arms and armor?” Although his question was conversational, his voice boomed out in a kingly manner so that all might hear it. Then Bilbo saw three dwarves at the other end of the arena. 

One was in full plate mail, unmistakably Carrick with his bright red beard, and he carried a war hammer half as big as he was. A single blow from such a hammer would be more than enough to crush a dwarf’s skull. The other two were dressed in similarly elaborate mail, though they carried less fearsome weapons. One had a double bladed ax and the other a longsword not unlike the one Thorin used before finding Orcrist. 

Swinging the hammer in a broad arc, Carrick brought it down on a boulder and shattered it into rubble. “In other circumstances,” he said, “I might complain of having a king foolish enough to arm and armor his foes. Fortunately, I do not think that will be something Erebor will need to suffer for long.” 

“He is not going to fight all three of them?” Bilbo squeaked, looking around in a panick. “Fili, you must put a stop to this!”

“I thought it was your idea?” the prince asked, turning away from the scene below to look at Bilbo curiously.

“This is most certainly not my idea! I thought it might help my nightmares to see one of my friends defeat Carrick. Ideally, in a nice arm wrestling competition with no weapons in reach. I did not want Thorin to risk himself, and I certainly didn’t want anyone to face all three of them alone. He is going to be murdered!”

Patting Bilbo’s hand with an absent sort of consolation, Fili turned back to watching his uncle. “Don’t worry. They were allowed to make free of the entire armory, and look at their choices. The king is in no danger.” 

“You are aware of the terms?” Thorin asked thunderously. 

“As I understand it,” Carrick said, “We are to fight to the death. Even though I likely face the ax of your heir’s executioner afterward, I admit it will bring me great pleasure to send you before me to the Halls of Waiting.” 

“It will not be so,” Thorin said. “Should any of you kill me, the survivors will be given a full pardon for their attack on the crown and permitted to leave Erebor in peace. My heir has agreed to this.” Thorin gestured to Fili, who nodded regally. 

“And what do you get out of this?” Carrick snarled. “Why do we face you instead of the executioner’s blade?” 

The whole mountain was perfectly still as every ear strained to hear the king’s explanation for this bizarre spectacle. “I get the assurance that you will fight me honestly, as though your very lives depend upon it.” Turning his back to the three villains, Thorin strode over to the royal box and locked eyes with Bilbo.

“Do not do this,” the hobbit begged. “You are a king! You must not risk being hurt in such a foolish cause. Tell them you have changed your mind. Or at least have Dwalin or someone else to fight alongside you. Me! I have a right to fight with you, don’t I? I’m the one they hurt.”

“And unfortunately, you are still too hurt for such a battle, my brave friend,” Thorin said, his voice impossibly gentle. “Fear not, Master Baggins, for I shall prove to you that there is no cause for fear here.” 

“Give him something,” Balin said from very far away. “It is traditional to give the one who fights a token bearing your name. A bead from your hair would be customary, if you have anything similar.”

Bilbo, of course, did not wear beads in his hair. All he had was a white handkerchief, but it was one of his nice new ones. Perhaps not quite up to the standards of dwarven tradition, but he’d monogrammed it neatly with a few cheerful flowers. It seemed to suffice, since Thorin accepted by wiping his mouth with it and tucking it inside of his armor. At least, Bilbo’s mind stuttered over the possibilities, the king must have used it to wipe his mouth. Why else would a dwarf press a clean handkerchief to his lips?

While the hobbit’s mind whirled frantically seeking an explanation that would make sense of what was happening before him, Thorin turned away and strode back to his enemies. They did not look pleased by the display. In fact, all three of them yelled out a war cry and rushed him.

“That must be cheating!” Bilbo cried.

“It is not a game of croquet,” Fili said. “But look: he is fine.” 

Indeed, Thorin easily dodged Carrick’s warhammer, kicking the dwarf into his fellow with the ax while the king parried the third dwarf’s sword. The two swordsmen made a quick exchange in a flurry of blows and somehow Thorin managed to send his opponent’s sword flying across the arena just as the dwarf with the ax swung at him from behind. The king wasted no time. Turning, Thorin slipped under the ax strike and dashed past his attacker, poking Orcrist through the seam of that dwarf’s armor, cutting a few straps as he withdrew it. 

Now it was Fili’s turn to question his uncle’s actions for the first time. “He could have easily disemboweled him there. Why would he go for such a shallow cut?” 

Bilbo’s hand fell to the healing lash wound on his own stomach, but he did not answer. 

In the arena, Thorin turned back to Carrick, dodging another dangerously powerful blow from that weighty warhammer. Answering the strike, Thorin seemed to slip Orcrist nimbly past the big dwarf’s guard, clearly aiming for the straps and buckles of Carrick’s armor. He did not have long before the other two dwarves came running back to press him from behind, but Carrick quickly lost his shoulder pauldrons and his breastplate all the same. Just before he was forced to turn, Thorin dashed past Carrick, giving him a long shallow cut across the back. As he danced backward, flicking the blood from his sword, Thorin grinned at his opponents. 

“It will be a death of slow cuts,” Balin sighed. “We knew that he would settle for no less. At least this way no dwarf can accuse him of being a coward or a tyrant.” 

Once again, Thorin dodged Carrick’s hammer and met the sword wielding dwarf for a furious exchange. Again, this exchange ended with the other dwarf’s sword sliding across the arena floor well away from the fighters. This time, however, Thorin also cut away his opponent’s left greave, leaving a light cut across the dwarf’s calf as the dwarf ran off to recover his weapon. Picking up Carrick’s fallen breastplate and using it as a makeshift shield, Thorin turned easily to meet the ferocious ax blow that fell down upon him. Twisting his arm, he wrested the ax from his opponent’s grip, dropping the armor but keeping the weapon. Then he used the hilt of Orcrist to knock the dwarf’s helmet from his head. In his left hand, he spun the ax, swinging it almost gently to cut across his opponent’s cheek. 

“Perhaps you do not have to stay for the whole,” Fili said distantly, as Thorin roared with laughter and dropped the ax at his opponent’s feet. 

Carrick lost more of his armor and received a deep stab wound to his shoulder as Bilbo’s hand drifted up to the bandage on his own cheek and he answered Fili. “Next will be a cut to the inside of the thigh.” 

“What?” 

Sure enough, when Thorin had cut away more armor and kicked the sword wielding dwarf to the ground, he sliced along the inside of his thigh. Not deep enough to pierce an artery or sever muscles, the cut was simply a punishment for the whip mark that traced along that exact place on Bilbo’s leg. 

“How did you know?” Balin asked.

“Carrick did not whip me very much, really.” Bilbo’s breath came in pants, as though he was out there fighting himself. “Thorin has already given them the most obvious cuts.” 

This seemed to be a fact that Thorin was aware of, as he continued to cut away the armor and clothing of his opponents without making them bleed. Instead, he began hitting them with the butt of his sword and kicking them as he could. Naturally, Bilbo noticed that these blows tended to land where the worst of his own bruises happened to be. When the three dwarves stood naked before all of Erebor, clutching their weapons and huddling back away from Thorin, Carrick spoke. 

“Just kill us!” he cried, “Put an end to this farce!” 

“Do you fear me?” Thorin asked. His voice was deep and demanding, the voice of a king. Bilbo shivered, but he was not afraid.

“Yes,” said the dwarf clutching his ax. 

“Because I am king?” Thorin pressed, not even moving in their direction. 

“Because you are the stronger,” said the dwarf clinging to his sword. 

“You will have us kill each other,” Carrick said. In his voice, Bilbo heard a mix of wonder and despair. “That is the only way you will allow us to die.” 

To the hobbit’s surprise, Thorin looked at him then. Bilbo had no idea what the dwarf saw in his face, but whatever it was made the king smile. “No. If you fear me, then you may live with your fear. The one you would have killed asked that of me, and I am in a mood to grant it, if you are dishonorable enough to accept such a mercy.” 

It was Carrick’s turn to look at Bilbo, and this time the hobbit found himself quite equal to giving the fellow a cheerful wave. 

“We are grateful for the Burglar’s mercy,” he growled grudgingly. “We apologize for his mistreatment at our hands.” 

“Very well.” Thorin smiled. “When you have cut your beard to show your regret, your wounds will be treated and you will be allowed to leave Erebor, though no dwarven place that would keep my friendship will give you welcome.” 

At this demand, a shocked murmur rolled through the crowded stadium, but Bilbo barely noticed. He knew well that a dwarf’s beard was his pride and joy. Most of his friends admitted that they had never even once trimmed that hair, nor would they consider it no matter how strangely it grew, though of course they styled it as they might. Even so, with tears in his eyes, the dwarf with the sword took his own long beard in hand and sliced it off in a single cut. Similarly, the fellow with the ax chopped off the elaborate braids of his beard one at a time, letting them fall to the floor until he finally dropped his ax as well, sitting down hard among the ruin of his pride. 

Carrick did not move. “The halfling offered himself to me,” he said in a low, teasing voice. “His body and his service in exchange for water. He begged to be used, and the price was low enough.”

“No, he did not.” Thorin snorted. “If you had been fool enough to accept such an offer, my burglar would have escaped even more quickly than he did and with your genitals as a prize.” 

Snarling, Carrick rushed forward swinging the hammer wildly. Thorin dodged, pulled the heavy weapon easily from his hands, and tossed it away, kicking Carrick solidly in his naked chest. The dwarf sprawled backward, staring up at the ceiling. Bilbo did not pity him at all. 

“Cut your beard or cut your throat,” Thorin said. “I, too, grow weary of this farce.”

Rising, Carrick took his companion’s sword and cut off his own beard. The cheers that filled the arena were deafening as the naked dwarves were lead away to be bandaged, clothed and released. Bilbo did not even bother to look at them, for Thorin had returned to the royal box, sheathing Orcrist and smiling gently. The little hobbit’s heart hammered in his chest as he stared up into laughing blue eyes. Some part of him knew that he ought to be horrified. In the back of his mind, his father’s voice reminded Bilbo that two wrongs did not make a right. Yet Thorin’s handsome face was beaded with sweat and he smiled, as though the morning’s exercise had been pleasantly tiring. 

Bilbo’s hand found its way to the king’s bearded cheek without any real thought. “You were not hurt at all?” 

“No.” Thorin’s voice was soft, and his words were for no one else. “The conditions you set were quite clear. Any injury to my person was strictly forbidden, so I took none.” 

Laughing, Bilbo felt their bodies drift closer as though the heat radiating from Thorin was magnetic and nature itself pulled them together. “Is that how it works?” 

“It is.” Thorin’s hand stroked Bilbo’s hair. “Has your perceptive mind failed to notice that our adventures go best when I take your ideas as commands, my burglar?”

Seized by the sort of Tookish impulse that tended to send him running off after adventure, Bilbo suddenly had a very good idea of what to do with a tall, sweaty dwarf standing so close. Stretching up just a bit, Bilbo pressed his lips to Thorin’s. Instantly, strong arms wrapped around him pulling them even closer. A sweet tongue slipped into his mouth. Long hair fell forward to brush about his face and neck. 

When Thorin pulled away, Bilbo had to raise his voice to be heard over the deafening cacophony surrounding them. “I have an idea!”

This was not strictly true. The little hobbit’s frantic brain was quite failing to make coherent sense of anything that was happening to him. However, he was absolutely certain that he would come up with something if he could only get Thorin alone. 

“Excellent,” Thorin said, brushing his thumb over Bilbo’s lips as he caressed his cheek. Unable to resist, Bilbo allowed himself a little taste. Thorin’s thumb tasted of sweat, grit, leather, steel, and perhaps even slightly of blood. The callouses were rough against the hobbit’s tongue, and Thorin’s eyes were very wide. That was good, and it gave Bilbo a proper idea. 

Bracing himself on Thorin’s powerful arms, Bilbo leaned up to lick the sweat from his neck. Once the dwarf realized the brilliance of this scheme, he quite obligingly helped by lifting Bilbo easily. Wrapping his legs around Thorin’s middle, Bilbo continued the very important work of burying his head in that long curtain of hair and sucking kisses along the line of his armor. 

Abruptly, and with no explanation at all, Thorin set Bilbo down and pulled away. Naturally Bilbo tried to follow, but a hand on his uninjured shoulder stopped him. Blinking at Balin, Bilbo slowly realized that some part of the shouting had been directed at him. Distantly he realized that dwarves didn’t tend to make such public displays any more than hobbits did. It seemed ridiculous to care about something like that when Thorin had just stupidly and heroically humiliated the monsters from Bilbo’s nightmares in front of the entire mountain. 

“Sorry,” Bilbo said, not even a little apologetic. “Yes, that was a bit much. We’ll go somewhere private now.”

Thorin stared at the hobbit with a fixation he had once saved for the Lonely Mountain itself and Bilbo lost his train of thought for the sake of meeting that gaze with equal intensity.

“You will not,” Oin said. “You’re coming with me, my lad. You’ve opened the wound on your shoulder.” 

“Of course,” Bilbo agreed, “Lead the way.” Slipping under the healer’s burly arm and darting back to Thorin’s side, he brushed a goodbye kiss to the king’s cheek and whispered, “Meet me where you found me,” thinking that was obvious enough. Surely that could refer to no place other than the fur in front of the fire in Thorin’s rooms. Bilbo had already had quite a few ideas about that location, and it seemed a perfect time to enact them all.

Thorin caught him firmly and tucked him under one arm. That was just as good as sneaking away. Better even, Bilbo thought, relaxing against the king’s side. No one would take him away from Thorin. “I will go with you,” he announced, ignoring Balin who seemed to disapprove of this idea. 

Indeed, not only did Balin frown, but he followed them from the royal box to the chamber of healing wordlessly. Whether or not bloody fights were the main purpose of the great arena in Erebor, there must have been more than one place set aside specifically to tend wounds. Bilbo saw no sign of Carrick or the other fighters, and no sign that they had been rushed away to make way for the hobbit. Yet clearly there could not have been a better equipped place to clean and dress an injury. 

Now that his attention had been drawn to it, Bilbo’s shoulder hurt. The deep stab wound there had opened and a few stitches had been lost, probably when Bilbo had tried to pull himself up on Thorin to get the best possible angle for a kiss. Oin grumbled about his hard work going to waste, but he let Thorin hold Bilbo’s other hand while he restitched the injury. Cleaning it with potions and poultices was as painful as ever, but Bilbo appreciated the fresh bandage. Even more than that, he appreciated the image he would forever have of Thorin’s sword going through Carrick’s shoulder, giving him the exact same wound. 

Thus it was that while Oin worked, Bilbo brought the back of Thorin’s hand to his lips and placed there a gentle kiss, smiling up at his friend as he did so. The king returned the smile, but seemed to hesitate when the healer’s work was finished. He ducked out of the room to speak with Oin, leaving Bilbo alone with Balin. 

“When I first saw what my king intended,” the old dwarf began carefully, “I wondered if a hobbit could understand the full meaning behind such a display. Now I find myself wondering if it does not signify even more in your culture than it does in ours.” 

“What?” Bilbo turned to give Balin his full attention instead of staring at the door. 

“It was a romantic gesture indeed, but not a proposition of marriage or invitation to public indecency,” Balin said bluntly. 

Bilbo laughed in surprise. “And you think a hobbit would propose marriage with a fight? The closest hobbits come to fighting is tweens knocking each other down, and they are rarely sober when they do it. Grown hobbits do not fight.” 

“Then how is it that seeing Thorin battle for your honor has so completely changed your character? How is it that a respectable hobbit who will not bathe in public, who was so ashamed to be stripped naked by his captors, who blushes whenever dwarves so much as exchange kisses in his view, would act as you did just now?” 

Blinking at Balin, Bilbo had to laugh again. “You are right my friend, no respectable hobbit would act as I have done. No respectable hobbit would go on an adventure, but I heard Thorin’s song and I followed. No respectable hobbit would fight an orc, but I saw Thorin walk through fire to defend our company and I could not let him stand alone. No respectable hobbit would make any of the choices I have made, and so I must unhappily conclude that I am no longer quite respectable.” Then, shyly, he added, “I think perhaps he likes me as I am.” 

At once, Balin’s expression softened into the easy smile Bilbo knew so well. “Aye lad. I expect he does.” And that seemed to be the end of Bilbo’s interrogation. 

Shortly thereafter he was tucked firmly under Thorin’s arm once more as they gathered with friends for luncheon and to celebrate the victory. Resisting his embarrassment during the good natured teasing was a trial, but Bilbo managed. Unfortunately, Thorin seemed to find it similarly simple to resist Bilbo’s suggestions that they go somewhere to be alone. 

“Your heart may be strong, but your lungs are yet weak from all you suffered. We must not risk reopening your wounds.” 

“Perhaps,” Bilbo pouted, “I do not want to be quite so safe with you as that. I am here for adventures, after all.” 

Laughing heartily, Thorin smacked a kiss to Bilbo’s temple. “So adventures you shall have, when you are well. Yet I am here to protect what is mine.” 

Shivering, Bilbo pressed himself even closer to Thorin’s side. 

“You are mine,” the king said in a low voice that nevertheless carried the full weight of authority.

“I suppose,” Bilbo said flippantly, “Though I am a burglar. If you do not entertain me properly, I shall simply steal myself away.” 

“Well do I know it.” Thorin’s tone was more sober and less seductive. “I am not fool enough to think that I can keep you always by my side or protect you from every harm. One day, no matter how safe I make Erebor, you will go home. Both of my eyes are open and you need not fear misleading me.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly. If I wanted to steal away from you, I could not go home. My home is at your side, so that is a wholly ridiculous suggestion.” Ignoring Thorin’s sharp gasp, Bilbo added, “I would steal myself to Mirkwood. It really is a very beautiful kingdom, and you know my love of Elven language and culture.” 

This successfully annoyed Thorin into kissing Bilbo very thoroughly until the hobbit was dizzy, wanting, and entirely willing to admit that he was the sole property of the King Under the Mountain. Unfortunately, Thorin continued to think that the proper thing to do with such a prize was keep him safely tucked against his side where he could not come to harm. 

Honestly, Bilbo might have gone off in a huff, except he knew that there would be opportunities in the very near future for additional kisses. As long as he remained beside Thorin Oakenshield, there would be peril, but there would also be adventure enough to set his Tookish heart racing and light his blood aflame. He would not have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> The torture Bilbo experiences is: whipping, beating, water-boarding, sensory deprivation, starvation, dehydration, and forced isolation. There is no rape or sexual violence, though he is deprived of clothing and a reference to the possibility is made later in the story as a way of pissing Thorin off. The violence Thorin inflicts on Bilbo's captors is mostly stabbing with swords and humiliation.


End file.
